


tokyo drifting

by dreamkinks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, haha who said that, krtsk if you squint, lots of onigiri, not like he was waiting for onigiri miya to come to tokyo or anything, omg a real tag!!, osamu needs help and akaashi just so happens to be nearby, tbh i forgot how tags work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamkinks/pseuds/dreamkinks
Summary: akaashi keiji, osamu learns, goes about love the same way he does life: quietly, all in.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	tokyo drifting

**Author's Note:**

> *sweats and hands this to the osaaka community* 
> 
> mildly inspired by art from [fiend on twt](https://twitter.com/fiendishpal?lang=en), specifically their series 'closing time' <3
> 
> get a snack and enjoy!

**[侑]**

_ “sorry i can’t stop by to help, samu,”  _ comes his twin brother’s voice from the receiver. osamu huffs and hopes his phone picks up the sound, drops another box onto the counter. of course his brother would be at an away game when he finally made it to tokyo.  _ “are ya gonna be alright?” _

“i’ll manage,” he grunts out, but his arms are heavy and he wants nothing more than to just  _ sleep. _

from the other side of the phone there’s some shuffling, and the distinct sound of an owl approaching.  _ “myaa-sam! congrats on the new restaurant! hey, how’s the unpacking going?” _

he chuckles and decides now’s as good a time as ever to take a break if he’s going to be talking to bokuto koutarou. he thanks whichever brain cell convinced him to set up the bar stools early, settling himself into one and dragging the phone closer to his ear. “it’s going. tiresome, though. i’m not the athlete i used to be.”

if one good thing has come out of atsumu’s recruitment into the black jackals, it’s the ability to hear bokuto’s laugh. it’s clear as day and warmer than a weighted blanket in winter, and osamu has become absolutely enamoured by it. it’s close to how he feels about seeing kita’s smile. they’re complete opposites, but that genuinity is irreplaceable and beautiful.  _ “please! you’ve almost got me beat, y’know?! we need to hit the gym together sometime, myaa-sam! and then you’ve gotta cook for us after! are you stronger than tsum-tsum?” _

“obviously.”

_ “not!” _

_“sure, tsum-tsum,”_ bokuto laughs again, airy, bright, and so full of heart. atsumu grumbles in the background; _bitter._ _“oh, but hey, myaa-sam, did you need any help? tokyo’s my hometown, y’know! i have some guys that could stop by if you need! they’re probably not doing anything.”_

this makes him perk up, the prospect of not having to carry the rest of the boxes of supplies and furniture all by himself too appealing to ignore. osamu is the prideful type: it’s why he told his part-timers  _ it’s okay, i’ll handle it, just practice the recipes _ and ended up in this situation. but this is bokuto, who, for as long as osamu has known him, has never done anything with bad intentions. 

“only if they’re not busy.”

_ “i’ll call ‘em! good luck, myaa-sam!” _

and that’s that. 

he sends an address, gets a  _ can you survive for 20 more mins by yourself??? _ back, and hopes that whoever is on their way has more patience than him.

15 minutes later, the bell above the door jingles and osamu falls into deep blue.

“miya-san?” there’s snowflakes in his hair and his cheeks are tinted pink from the cold. osamu hasn’t seen him since the adlers match, but somehow, he’s gotten even prettier. it’s really quite unfair. “bokuto-san said you could use some help setting up shop. i hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“akaashi-kun,” he breathes, the name foreign but familiar, sitting heavy on his tongue. he should’ve known. “‘course not. sorry about the mess, but it’s good to see you.”

osamu has been the object of akaashi’s attention few times in his life, but each one has left him smoldering. this, however, is new. private. without the eyes of volleyball fans or ravenous old teammates and rivals. something to curl into his chest and hack at an ancient thought from his teens:  _ man, the fukurodani setter is pretty. _

akaashi is smiling at him, quiet and beautiful. “you as well. i’m glad you finally made it to tokyo.”  _ i’ve been waiting. _

he smiles back and turns around to fiddle with the radio the old owner had left behind. osamu can’t do silence. not with him, he thinks. a melancholic sound fills the shop and he grabs a pair of gloves for akaashi, just so he doesn’t get hurt. “same here. wanna start with the appliances?”

catching up with akaashi keiji is strange, for the simple fact that they don’t know each other that well. they’ve existed in the same space many times over — at nationals, in stadiums, at msby black jackals gatherings where friends and family were allowed. but they don’t know each other, not really. it’s small talk, sweet anecdotes where appropriate, a grumble about how  _ atsumu is so fucking annoying _ and  _ bokuto-san doesn’t realize that some of us don’t operate on athlete schedules _ . osamu’s ears go red, and he thanks akaashi profusely; wonders why he came if he’s always so  _ busy. _

“ah, well,” akaashi pauses, sorting a variety of utensils into the drawers behind the stained wood counter. “i had planned on coming the day you opened anyway. i told you, didn’t i? that i was excited for you to open a branch here,” there’s a twinkle in his eye when they meet, one that reminds osamu of his brother:  _ mischievous. _ “and my mangaka thinks that if i get into cahoots with you i can use you for free onigiri.”

a laugh bubbles out of his throat and he almost drops the pans he’s attempting to balance. “makes sense.”

“what does?” comes a new voice, and osamu wonders why he didn’t hear the bell this time. regardless, kuroo tetsurou comes strutting in, a disinterested tsukishima kei behind him. “hey hey, kaashi-kun! bokkun text you too?”

akaashi finishes and pushes his glasses up, sending kuroo a fond smile. “something of the sort. hello, kuroo-san, tsukishima-san. how are you?”

“hungry,” says tsukishima, with a pointed look in osamu’s direction. “i was dragged here against my will, so i expect some noteworthy compensation for as much.”

_ such a prick, _ osamu thinks, but nods regardless. “of course. you’ll be the unofficial first customers of  _ onigiri miya: tokyo.” _

he mourns the loss of his private time with akaashi quietly, but appreciates the slew of stories from past training camps between the three of them that gives him just the slightest more insight into what the raven is like. tsukishima complains about all the times akaashi let kuroo and bokuto rope him into their madness, back then. akaashi only shrugs, not seeming bothered at all.

it’s interesting, too, to see how akaashi acts with them. maybe it’s because they don’t know each other that well, but he smiles more, looking relaxed. there must be something comforting to be able to get together in an intimate space such as this, for him. part of osamu wants to boast about how  _ he _ did that, but he doesn’t want to interrupt kuroo’s tale of when bokuto had bet that akaashi wouldn’t be able to go a day without speaking to him (he had gone seven).

“i think that’s about it,” osamu says finally, two hours later, surrounded by more empty boxes than he had started with. “thank you guys for all your help. i’m sure you had better things to do.” he gets a variety of waves, a shrug, an  _ it was no trouble _ , smooth like silk. “what kind of onigiri do you guys like?”

_ umeboshi _ , for tsukishima. kuroo, after laughing at him for being basic, says  _ tuna mayo.  _ (“and  _ i’m  _ basic? speak for yourself. what are you, five?”) it’s with a small laugh that akaashi says he’ll have whatever osamu recommends. 

that’s as high a compliment as any, by osamu’s standards. 

he slips into an apron and like a switch has been flipped, ritually gets to work. washes his hands for the recommended twenty seconds, salts them before he begins to mold the rice. if there’s one thing osamu knows better than volleyball, it’s this: how much pressure to add when trying to get the rice to move with you, the tuna to mayo ratio, when the beef is cooked  _ just  _ right to make the perfect  _ nikumaki. _ at 5 years old, he had watched and studied the way his  _ baa-chan _ took care of the rice and meat and vegetables with all the care in the world. at 23, he does his best to imitate her, to implement everything he knows and loves about food into 12 small balls of rice.

this, now, is all that he knows.

it’s why he doesn’t get distracted even when he feels akaashi’s eyes drifting towards him, watching, more than what would be considered normal since two of his oldest friends are sitting right next to him. it’s why he doesn’t falter when an offhand, “it smells quite good,” comes from behind him. it’s why when he places the platter in front of them, he’s thinking more about how akaashi practically moans after the first bite because  _ it's delicious, myaa-sam _ , rather than the way his lips look curling around his food. 

“seriously, dude, this is amazing,” kuroo comments, with an agreeing hum from tsukishima on his right. “no wonder it only took you a few months to get out here. these probably sell like hotcakes back in osaka.” he’s not wrong in the slightest, osamu knows as much already, but there’s a different sort of pride that swells within him, now. “oh, man. how am i gonna eat anyone else’s onigiri ever again?”

he smirks, grabbing his own snack. “guess you’re stuck with me forever. should i start up a tab?”

a quiet snort from the left, where akaashi is deftly reaching for —  _ his third? _ osamu has always loved a man that knows how to eat. “i fear for the state of my wallet come next week.” oh god, he’s even got the opening date committed to memory.

something in his stomach churns, anxious and ecstatic. he forces himself not to blurt out  _ i’ll serve you for free, _ because that’s weird, and they’re not alone, and they don’t know each other  _ like that. _ “onigiri miya welcomes you anytime,” he says instead. 

kuroo and tsukishima don’t linger much longer after that.  _ meetings, _ kuroo says with a dramatic sigh, before wrapping his arm over the blond’s shoulders and steering them towards the door. “see ya, miya-kun!” tsukishima barely manages a wave, but all things considered, osamu decides that he isn’t so bad.

then they’re alone again, and osamu doesn’t know what to say.

thankfully, akaashi (editor) always seems to be able to find the words to fill up the spaces. “thank you again, myaa-sam. the onigiri was lovely. i think you’ll be quite popular.” osamu likes the way his accent, newly revealed, shows itself in his name. 

“osamu,” he says, because—part of him hopes, part of him wants, needs to shorten the distance. “osamu is fine. and i couldn’t have done it without ya, akaashi-kun.”

he thinks the way akaashi purses his lips is real cute, but the smile that comes after is much cuter. “i’m sure you would’ve managed, osamu-san.”

he’s not sure how to respond to that, and akaashi still doesn’t make any inclination to leave. not that osamu wants him to, anyway. instead he lets akaashi observe him, the sapphire of his eyes cutting into every nook and cranny he can find from the other side of the counter. osamu wonders what he’s looking for, if he’ll find it. reminisces about the times he’d done the same from the other side of the net and with much clearer intentions.

osamu wonders what it is about being an adult that always makes you want to hide.

“i should get going,” akaashi says eventually, when his eyes snap back into focus and meet osamu’s own. “thank you for the meal.” 

“do you live far from here? i’ll lock up and walk you.”

“...okay. i’d like that, thank you.”

the smell of sakura washes over him when they finally step out, even though they’re deep into the city. osamu tries not to glance at akaashi, walking in-step beside him, but the raven’s face is buried in a scarf that makes him look almost impossibly cute. 

osamu wonders how he ended up here. 

it’s not as if there were any shortage of people he was familiar with in tokyo; high school volleyball games had made sure of that. but this is  _ new. _ this is him, alone, trying to carve a name for himself in a city that is always so busy, always moving. yet here comes akaashi — friendly, acquaintance — helping to make the whole thing just a little more bearable. more than osamu expected; more than he could’ve hoped for.

“this is me,” akaashi speaks up suddenly. or maybe not; he has no idea how much time has passed, only that the sky has gotten inkier. osamu pulls his gaze from the city still looming ahead of them to his left, where an apartment building looms tall overhead. tries to ignore the disappointment that washes over him in waves. “thank you, osamu-san. i... had fun.”

“i should be thanking you, akaashi-kun,” osamu says. “you were a big help tonight. and it was… i dunno, nice to be with someone i knew, i guess.”

now, in the cool night, osamu allows himself to be distracted by akaashi’s lips and the way they fall into a soundless  _ oh.  _ they’re perfectly pink, burning against his pale skin. somehow not chapped either, despite the embers of winter that still litter the air. “i was happy to help.” he says, soft, like everything else. osamu is learning that the akaashi off the court is much more gentle. he hesitates a lot more, too; a consequence of not having an “ace” who’s always meant to pull through? 

but akaashi is not that weak, and never has been. he brought his team to nationals, after all. “would... would you like to come in for some tea?”

they don’t know each other that well, not really, but osamu still says yes, breathless.

when osamu was younger, he didn’t really get what the girls in his class meant when they said they liked him. “i like you too?” he would respond, unsure, until atsumu moaned about how  _ samu always gets confessions! we have the same face! _ confessions, he learned, meant that the  _ like _ he knew — for food, or eating, or volleyball — became the  _ like _ everyone else craved: handholding, private conversations, a smile reserved just for you. 

but osamu found that  _ liking  _ someone just cut into his time for cooking, or eating, or playing volleyball. was it necessary? he didn’t have the funds to cover other people’s meals, and he certainly couldn’t find anyone who appreciated food the same way he did. (kita not included, but kita is one in a million in every aspect.) thus despite the confessions (and to his twin’s chagrin), osamu stayed virtually single until he went away to college. 

and then… well, college. 

he still wouldn’t say that he truly, in every sense of the word,  _ liked  _ anyone during that time. but he has eyes, and knows when someone is attractive. without the pressure of  _ liking  _ someone, or approaching them with the intent to get to know them better outside of their body, osamu got his fair share of the college experience. 

this will never stop people like akaashi. 

people like akaashi, who look like a daydream, make you pinch yourself to make sure this is real. people like akaashi, soft spoken but incredibly witty and weird, the picture of innocence until you catch his eye and see the mirth dancing within. people like  _ akaashi,  _ who pass you by once and ruin you for a lifetime. 

osamu has never been weaker, he thinks. 

“any preference?”

“what do you have?”

a pantry overflowing with teas of all sorts, ranging from cheap and local to rare and foreign. osamu has never heard of  _ blueberry merlot.  _ akaashi’s ears are pink. 

talking has never been osamu’s  _ thing,  _ though his delinquent brother would have many believe otherwise. (atsumu is better now, he hopes, if he can manage to pull a guy like  _ sakusa.)  _ but something about akaashi — or perhaps about how their knees knock under the table, or how he tries to hide his smile behind his  _ best setter  _ mug — makes him braver. makes osamu want to push harder, get closer, challenge what months (maybe years) of fleeting thoughts can make bloom. 

“to a grain of rice, a second is everything,” kita had said to him, once. they stood in the fields, in the heat of the summer, lugging the produce osamu would be taking back to the shop in osaka in his truck. his driver had been sick, and he had missed kita dearly. “it means growth is coming. each second forward, just the slightest bit closer to harvest, is all they look towards. wouldn’t it be nice to live like that? without looking back, without any regrets?”

if osamu thought kita personifying grains of rice was incredulous, he kept the thought to himself and nodded obediently. 

_ we don’t need memories.  _

looking at akaashi, now, osamu wonders why he always hopes time will do the work for him. 

“are you busy, this week?”

his eyebrows are perfectly shaped, osamu notes, when one is raised in his direction. “well, zom’bish is actually ahead of schedule, for once.”

_ i need to ask him if the main character is going to end up with that new girl.  _ “think ya’d be able to pass by the shop again, before we open? i have some recipes i wanna try out on a tokyo native.”

he’s got real long eyelashes, too. when he looks at him from underneath them, osamu feels like he’s 16 again. sneaking out of their hotel room in okinawa to swim in the ocean with the rest of the team, even though they can barely see anything, had it not been for the light of the moon. 

“i’m not exactly a food critic, osamu-san.”

“maybe not, but i think you love it just as much as i do.” 

their ankles brush underneath the table and akaashi turns his eyes to osamu’s fingers. he keeps them wrapped around his own mug, indulges himself in the way akaashi follows the movement when he brings it to his mouth. 

“don’t you need your ingredients for opening, though? i wouldn’t want you to waste them on me.” 

_ it’s not a waste.  _ how could he think that?  _ how is anything ever wasted on you?  _ “then come over.”

“you’re staying in tokyo?” akaashi looks genuinely surprised, and osamu ranks it in his top 5 favourite expressions for the editor. not that he has that many to rank, but still. it’s the little things. 

“for now,” he hums, drums his fingers against the table. “a couple of months, most likely.”

akaashi doesn’t answer right away, simply humming in response and taking a sip of his own drink. “i suppose it’d be nice to taste test something other than bokuto’s horrendous attempts at stir fry.”

“please tell me you’re joking, kaashi-kun.”

a short cock of his eyebrow at the nickname, but akaashi chuckles regardless. “i wish. i don’t think even you could save him.”

“at the very least i’ll be able to save you.” 

(it doesn’t mean anything, not really. can’t mean anything, truly, if osamu’s the one drowning.)

akaashi is really too unfair. “i’d love to.”

**[osamu]** he sticks the landing! one wrong turn and 30 minutes later, i have arrived safe and sound in my humble abode. 

**[akaashi]** Is that what I sound like to others?

**[osamu]** don’t think so tbh

**[osamu]** missing the obligatory cute but deadly factor 

**[akaashi]** When have I ever harmed anyone?

**[osamu]** so we’re gonna pretend you didn’t wipe the floor with us at nationals? NOTED

**[akaashi]** Must have slipped my mind. 

**[osamu]** you’re a menace, keiji-kun

osamu dreams of roots breaking through the soil. 

**[治]**

_ “don’t rush,”  _ his  _ baa-chan _ had said, grabbing his seven year old hands between her own.  _ “make sure every single piece feels how much you care. that’s the trick. be gentle and giving, and your food will repay you.” _

_ onigiri miya: tokyo _ is a hit. osamu — who’d expected to be virtually unknown for most of the first quarter — is pleasantly surprised (re: over the moon). he’d been so nervous, travelling away from his hometown and putting his all into making sure everything was ready, that it all went according to plan. he couldn’t fail here, or atsumu would get the upper hand. 

as osamu watches the last customers of the night share bites of food between loving hands and toothy smiles, he feels himself pull ahead — just the slightest bit. he snaps a picture of the sign hanging up on the wall — drawn by yachi hitoka, one of shoyo-kun’s old teammates — with his middle finger up, and sends it to atsumu. 

“need any help today, osamu-san?” comes akaashi’s voice, breaking through his thoughts. osamu pockets his phone, ignoring the incessant buzzing indicating atsumu’s response, and gives the raven a crooked smile. 

“just for a little.”

the customers leave and keiji’s hands are  _ everywhere.  _ his arms, shoulders, hair. cupping the back of his neck to bring him  _ closer closer closer.  _

osamu is obsessed with him, really. 

“bad day?” osamu asks between teeth, rubbing his hands down his back. 

keiji sighs, looping his arms around his neck. “no,” he says, and pulls away just enough so that he can look into osamu’s eyes. “just missed you.” he’s a fucking goner. 

and really, what else should he have expected? that akaashi would come over, and they would continue to simply “accidentally” touch one another, until accidents became more insistent, more purposeful? 

osamu is a spiker first; always watching, waiting for the most opportune time to strike, while akaashi is a setter through-and-through, setting up the entire play for him long before he’s even realized what’s happened. 

to akaashi, it probably isn’t that much of a shocker when  _ do ya wanna taste test some recipes?  _ turns into  _ let me take you out to dinner.  _

_ like a date?  _ he’d asked, you know, like a liar. 

_ well if you NEED to slap a label on it :/  _

but restaurant dates were practically nothing in the face of a post-work akaashi, stumbling in near closing every single night, ink always smudged on his fingers (twice his cheek) and asking for the chef’s recommendation. osamu can’t help but oblige, indulging him in his favourites every time. 

**[osamu]** do ya have a favourite kind??

**[akaashi]** I think you’ve ruined me forever. I like them all. 

and osamu  _ adores  _ a man that knows how to eat. 

loves watching him, too, because he always looks like he’s enjoying himself. he doesn’t smile the way tsumu does and spill rice out of the sides of his mouth, but always looks  _ content,  _ as if he finally gets to relax. osamu can’t help but want to indulge him further, every time. 

thus, inevitably:

“how do you make it so well?” akaashi turns the triangular mound in his hands, carefully, gently, making sure osamu’s work doesn’t crack. he’s wearing  _ shorts.  _ osamu feels like he’s going to die. “i don’t think i’m bad at making onigiri, but this—there’s no flaws.”

“i can show ya,” osamu says, and tugs gently at akaashi’s wrist. he lets himself be guided, settling between osamu and the counter. summer’s creeping in too fast to be this close, but osamu’s not thinking about that at all. “you’ve gotta make the most of your hands.” he grabs some salt and rubs it into akaashi’s palms, before grabbing a small handful of rice. “see, a lot of people focus too much on their fingers, but you’ve gotta use the crevices, too.”

akaashi had remained silent the whole time, allowing osamu to bend and pressure his fingers as he wished, practically boneless. “but if yer pressure is all off, it’ll ruin the whole thing. ya gotta do it like yer—mm, i dunno, massaging someone? firm but gentle. don’t make the rice work for you; you’ve gotta work  _ together.” _

“sounds a lot like something else i’m quite good at,” akaashi mumbles, but osamu is so close that he can’t possibly miss it. 

slowly, osamu raises his gaze from where their hands are intertwined to akaashi’s own. he’s not surprised to find the other looking at him already; akaashi blinks at him, owlishly, deceptively innocent. “keiji,” osamu breathes, a whisper between the two of them in the quiet of his apartment. akaashi’s musical obsession of the week had long since finished playing on the speakers. “you…”

a quirk of his lip. he  _ knows.  _ “me?”

osamu breathes in quickly and turns his face so he can press his nose into akaashi’s hair. “yer gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles into the dark curls, and akaashi laughs. 

“like, american horror story season 3 pilot style?”

“well, i wouldn’t say no to  _ that…”  _

osamu sighs against keiji’s lips, let’s their kiss fade into something sweeter, softer. “are you tired?” keiji asks him, his lips slightly downturn when he pulls away just enough so he can see osamu’s face. 

“nah,” he answers, eyes raking all over his boyfriend’s pretty face. his curl-covered forehead, the slant of his eyebrows, the dip of his cupid’s bow. the blue of his eyes which hold—so much it makes osamu  _ shake.  _ “just thinking about how lucky i am.”

and it really hasn’t been that long, when he thinks about it, except this has been—weeks, or years in the making. osamu can’t help liking him; can’t help loving him. and he knows keiji feels the same when his ears go pink and he bites his lip to stop his smile from overtaking his entire face. he’s so goddamn  _ cute.  _

“worth losing nationals over?”

“worth losing everything.”

sometimes osamu thinks he’s in too deep, but then akaashi looks at him— _ really  _ and truly  _ looks  _ at him, a sea of blue with a future on the horizon, and osamu dives in all over again. 

**Author's Note:**

> they have me on a leash. i am not immune to them whatsoever
> 
> this also may or may not operate in the same universe as [my skts fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136460) if you want to give that a go but i digress...
> 
> thank you for reading <3!


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